


no words

by Hydra_Trash_Gal



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Because there’s no it to fix, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Some Plot, some angsty smut, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 03:18:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18421728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hydra_Trash_Gal/pseuds/Hydra_Trash_Gal
Summary: When it comes to Clint and Bucky together there are no words and in Bucky’s opinion, that says plenty.





	no words

**Author's Note:**

> please heed the warnings and enjoy
> 
> not beta’d so all mistakes are my own.

It wasn’t his first time in Clint’s apartment — he dropped him off there after late night patrols and movie/dinner dates that they didn’t call dates most days of the week. More often than not they ended up tripping over odds and ends strewn around the studio in Bed-Stuy to the full sized mattress that rested on the floor. 

In some ways the apartment reminded Bucky of his own experience in Romania before Steve showed up.

It was shabby, impersonal and also oddly homey. Clint admitted to never owning much growing up and as a SHIELD agent he got in the habit of being able to shove everything he held dear into his emergency go bag. The two men could tangle onto the mattress well enough, close and personal without being stifling. 

After their extracurriculars they would lie side by side. Bucky would run a metal finger along the archer’s sternum and admire the way the dappled moonlight from the one teeny panel window lit up Clint’s cheekbones. 

There wasn’t a need for words; their touches were a flowing conversation of tenderness and lust. Eventually Clint would drop off to sleep and Bucky would dress and go. He rarely returned to the brownstone in Brooklyn where Steve was probably just as restless as he was. Instead he would think about Clint’s grin, the smell of his skin, and his bright blue eyes. What a man like Clint Barton saw in someone with such darkness within them, was beyond him. 

In fact Bucky had a hard time remembering when he realized he cared for the archer. Attraction was immediate but there were plenty of attractive people around him. Tony, Natalia, Bruce, hell even Steve now he wasn’t such a gangly little twerp. But the hollowness inside him had lessened noticeably when they were introduced. He was a fantastic sniper, quite possibly as good as him, but it was more than skills that drew Bucky in.

It was the eyes, he decided as he leaned against a wet brick wall staring up at the nondescript panel window surrounded by dozens of others. He knew Clint was inside, safe and dry and that mattered. 

It had been drizzling since he left the rundown building. He was clad in a hoodie taken from Steve but he doubted he’d care so long as it was returned blood free. He stared up at the window and wondered if there were words for what he felt. 

Clint had such beautifully sad eyes. Placeless and wounded from years of pain and loss and suffering over and over again. 

Bucky could relate to that. He knew how hard it was to smile when you know how much worst things can get. That was what drew Bucky to Clint. The rest of the archer’s oddities were just little broken bits of a man desperately trying to piece himself together. Every night he confronted thugs stronger than he was in, fully aware that he would sustain damage before neutralizing the threats, Bucky understood — those broken bits sometimes needed to be molded or beaten back into place. 

Bandages and bruises: physical proofs that he was alive and that he wasn’t done fighting. Bucky respected that and when his hands roamed his body under the low lighting in Bed-Stuy, Bucky would kiss them. Those sad eyes would get glassy and Clint would run his hand along his metal arm, up to the shoulder where he brushed his fingers over the harsh scar tissue. Self-inflicted wounds for the better good. Bucky in his attempts to rip the darkness off his body and then Clint who had yet to find where his own darkness stemmed from, coping quietly but suffering silently.

These were the words never spoken. Not when they walked down the blocks and Clint pointed out all the shops that were any good (all of them were because they offered food or coffee). Clint’s eyes would always glimmer when they passed the dog park but there weren’t words for that either. Just the backs of their hands brushing as walked said plenty. 

They still walked by everytime they were in the area and every following night Clint went on patrol. 

Bucky paused, the sidewalks sparsely populated at this time. He was staring down at the subway signs, echoes of his own screams filling his head. His fear of trains frustrated him but he still turned away. 

Walking was fine. 

By the time he got to the apartment dusk was on the horizon so he flipped on the coffee maker for Steve. His friend came out, already dressed for the day. There were lines around his mouth as if he had spent the entire night frowning deeply. He probably had. 

“Sleep well?” It was the courteous thing to ask a friend. 

“Like a dream; you?” 

Hollow smiles and lies, Bucky thought. “Good.”

He could still smell the lingering scent of Stark’s cologne but that wasn’t any of his business and frankly, he was better off not thinking about it. He took a swig of his coffee and thought about Clint waking up and drinking his coffee alone. Each sip tasted more and more bitter as he imagined the man looking through that narrow window, in that pitiful but safe studio apartment all by himself. 

“I’m going to go for a run with Sam — wanna join?”

“No thanks.” 

He finished his cup of alone-tasting coffee and waved goodbye to his best friend and Sam Wilson who appeared at the door, right on cue. 

Bucky told himself he would shower and fall into bed and not think about the melodious sound of Clint’s heartbeat. He wouldn’t think about Clint any more than necessary or further complicate the connection budding between them. He wouldn’t wonder why Clint got so strange around dog parks or the way he bought single serving everything because he would eat himself sick, should he have the chance.

His dreams were flashes of the past, of blood and the sound of gunfire. It was cold and dark sometimes, still and serene. Then, he was awake and the very first thought that crossed his mind was wondering what Clint dreamt of. Bucky searched the depths mind for a word to align with how he feels. 

Clint was damaged and beautiful and wonderful but just as fractured as he is. Each breath is a gamble, each moment easily the last. Bucky wondered if it was how Steve felt with him around, knowing that Bucky would easily step out the door and vanish like he did seventy years ago. Maybe he would dead or maybe he would have been consumed by his own darkness.

Bucky doesn’t want Clint’s darkness and he doesn’t want them to bleed together either. But these are words he can’t bring himself to say aloud so he walks all the way to Bed-Stuy. He resigned himself to intruding on Clint’s patrol and another night of words not said. 

Clint wiped blood from is face and smirked at him when he allowed himself to be seen. “You gotta get your own turf.”

Bucky glanced up at the sky, overcast and due for showers yet again. It always seemed like shit weather in Bed-Stuy — Stark insisted it was because it was a shit place to live. Bucky was inclined to agree. Why else would Clint gravitate toward it? 

“Police take care of things pretty well where I live.”

Side by side, too close for friends not close enough for anything more, a delicate balance hung between them. The blond ran a hand through his hair and Bucky glanced down at the flash of skin exposed. No Kevlar, no protection. 

Punishment wasn’t supposed to feel good, he found himself thinking. He tilted his head skyward to hide the smile. “Check your privilege, Barnes.” They passed a shady store front and Clint made a lustrous noise. “God, they have the best frappes.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and pretended not to notice that they were heading toward the dog park. “You think all frappes are the best frappes.”

“I want you saying ‘frappes’ to be my ringtone.”

“Shut up Barton.”

The archer side eyed him a moment and then focused completely on the young man across the street holding the lead to a pitbull mix. Bucky watched the way Clint’s eyes lit up and darkened immediately before his expression shuttered up to one of faux excitement. 

“They also have scones. And muffins. And muffin tops which are literally just the tops of muffins but they charge more for them.” Clint rambled the entire menu. 

Bucky tolerated it, occasionally humoring Clint’s ‘clueless’ persona. The backs of their hands bumped as they neared the apartment and by the time Bucky found himself tripping over that same goddamn boot he wondered again how they’d gotten there. But, when his lips were running down that sensitive bit of skin below Clint’s navel he didn’t care.

It was wrong and dysfunctional, neither one helped each other but maybe there was no help for either of them. 

Bucky eased inside Clint, his nails scrabbling for purchase against Bucky’s back. They were close, so goddamn close, but when Bucky glanced at Clint he realized they would never truly be together. Face drawn up in a snarl of lust and anger and hatred and pain, it made Bucky ached with rage toward whoever made Clint suffer and at the man himself for allowing this torment to continue. 

He rocked forward, mostly fascinated with the way Clint’s eyes screwed shut as if he could deny it happening as Bucky went deeper but when Bucky began to draw back, they would pop open. Blue eyes wide desperation and heat, breath exploding out of him in a desperate gasp. Sometimes those exhales sounded like ‘Phil’ but Bucky that was another thing that they did not talk about. 

When the primal needs were filled and they laid together in companionable silence Bucky wondered what Clint thought about while staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t ask. He trailed his hand along Clint’s side. His skin was molted with bruises and smelled of sex and sweat and detergent and generic soap. 

Bucky admired Clint, the way the moonlight dappled over a lithe body. But they didn’t speak. There weren’t words.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it!  
> (Although maybe like is the wrong word to use?)


End file.
